My fiancé and I are in the tiny ultrasound room, and I’ve got the tech who refuses to show you the screen until she’s certain everything is okay.
She looks for what seems like hours and I’ve already convinced myself something is wrong.
Finally I chime in with an, “Is everything alright?”
She turns the screen and confirms everything is better than alright. “Actually, there’s two!”
My fiancé thinks it’s an unfunny joke and I’m still trying to comprehend the fact that there are twenty fingers and twenty toes growing inside of me.
I gloat to my doctor about lack of morning sickness. I must be one of the lucky ones, right?
Ha, fat chance! Little did I know, the following morning I’d be hugging the toilet for dear life, retching up any and everything.
So much for luck.
Oh, and don’t get me started on sleep. Between the nausea, restless legs, babies shifting completely to one side, and heartburn, I barely got a wink of rest. And when I could sleep, it felt like I was going to the movie theater and “Most Messed Up Crap Ever” was streaming.
I literally dreamt I was a surrogate for my mom. My uncle and fiancé delivered her baby vaginally after a failed C-section.
I also dreamt I naturally birthed a Subway sub. But hey, at least it was “all natural.”
I only wish I was joking.
And I’ll never forget how much I craved that baby bump. I’d stand in the mirror, pushing with all my might so I could snap a “belly pic.” Honestly, I should have held off a few weeks.
Little did I know, I was fixing to look like a Macy’s Day balloon.
By the end of my pregnancy, my stretch marks were slightly bleeding. I was legitimately busting at the seams.
I remember seeing the singleton moms at the OBGYN, most of them with perfectly round bellies. They’d have their noses in the newest parenting magazine that’s residing on that cute bump.
And in walks me.
Big Ol’ Betsy coming to town.
I’d check in, sit next to one of the smiley ones and then they’d do it.
“So when’s your baby due?”
Great, now I have to answer all the questions. I have to explain, No, I’m not a whale because I have a ginormous baby inside of me. There are, indeed, two babies in there!
A boy and a girl.
Yes, I’m excited.
And no, you can’t touch.
While the happy ones are sitting patiently to be seen, there’s me. Huffing and puffing, walking around the waiting area like, “HELLO, I can’t sit longer than five minutes. Get me to a freaking room so I can nap.”
And once I realized I was growing a litter, the pregnancy “glow” started to fade and in came the hysterically irritated and emotional mommy.
My poor fiancé.
You hear the jokes about the ridiculous sobs of pregnant women. But I, truthfully, have a video of me crying when he ate the last of my chocolate chip cookies. I can still feel the sorrow of that moment.
Let’s not forget the swelling that happened overnight. My cankles had rolls on top of rolls, while my whole body felt tight and sore to the touch. I went to my doctor looking more like Violet from Willy Wonka than I did myself.
Sure enough, pre-eclampsia.
He asks if I’d prefer to deliver tonight or tomorrow morning.
Um, RIGHT NOW!
Two incubators, a couple neonatologists and double the nurses.
Two water breaks and two glorious cries.
Finally, they are here and worth every second of the wait.
Little did I know, exactly three years later, we would welcome ANOTHER set of twins into this world. And I will have sobbed over chocolate chip cookies all over again.
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